


Our Island in the Sun

by spookywriter



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: AU where Hickey is actually a decent person, Established Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Implied Sexual Content, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Not actually crack, Period-Typical Homophobia, i only know one part of the ship and it's the orlop deck, i'm as shocked as you are, playing fast and loose with canon events, the timeline can get screwed in platypus pond, with a side order of naval gazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-22
Updated: 2018-07-22
Packaged: 2019-06-14 12:29:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15388785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookywriter/pseuds/spookywriter
Summary: Hickey makes a proposal. Irving, against his better judgment, considers it.Or: AU where Hickey drinks some loving and appreciating John Irving juice, brought to you by our generous sponsors: a Weezer song and the author’s dawning realization that this ship has gone too far to be considered a joke anymore.





	Our Island in the Sun

**Author's Note:**

> I'm Hickey, healthy & non-problematic ships are my severed tongue, and my motivation is Tuunbaq biting my arm off and forcing me to write Irving/Hickey again.

On a late summer’s night (to call it summer is laughable in these frozen parts, but it is indeed July, if only in name), Cornelius makes a proposal between drags on his cigarette.

“Where do you see yourself when all this has come to an end? Will you seek promotion? Sign yourself aboard some voyage to parts more alien yet?”

John has not considered the matter at length. It is difficult to reconcile the past few months with the relative mundanity of his life prior to the expedition, prior to Cornelius. Of course, all this is fleeting. There is little doubt in his mind that he is little more than a diversion for Cornelius, and, even if it were not so, he sees no way that they might continue their indiscretions upon returning to England. Even if they were to hide the true nature of their relationship, the mere prospect of associating with a nameless, penniless man such as Cornelius Hickey would invite gossip at best, and outrage at worst.

“I do not know,” he admits. “I should like to be a captain, if God and the admiralty see fit. Beyond that...” He shakes his head.

There is sense, of course, in planning for the future. There is no telling when it will come — he might see London by summer’s end, or it may be two or three years more before they succeed in navigating the ever-shifting sheets of polar ice.

The thought alone reminds him of his miserable physical state, and John stomps his feet, trying to fight that cold creeping into his toes. He flushes despite himself when Cornelius grabs his mittened hands in his own, massaging the frozen fingers.

“Why rely on God and the admiralty?” There is a note of distaste in Cornelius’s voice that John must, in Christian charity, allow himself to ignore. “Me, I’ve decided to take fate into my own hands. When we complete the passage, I intend to start anew — _The Sandwich Islands_ .” The very words are seemingly enough to make him smile, wide enough that John notices his dimples. “When the chance comes to abandon _Terror_ , I plan to take it. Come with me, John.”

There is something in Cornelius’s eyes that might be mistaken for pleading, and John almost pulls away. “Would you resort to desertion?” He does not even dare broach his own potential involvement in the scheme.

Cornelius does not answer his question, and John cannot bring himself to be surprised. “ _Oahu_ ,” he says instead, as if the name itself is imbued with some fantastical property, a witch’s spell with which he can seduce John’s mind as well as his body. “ _Maui_. Imagine that. We will never be cold again.”

The thought of warmth alone is beyond tempting in his present state, but he must not fool himself — Cornelius does not love him, and John does not love Cornelius. Their arrangement is one based upon a foundation of loneliness and base need. Any affection that may have developed in their months together is a pleasant thing to have, but it does not mean anything. Not to the law, not in the eyes of God, and most certainly not to John Irving. He will return to England and find a pretty, clever, well-bred wife, and he will be ashamed to have thought that what he might have felt toward Cornelius could compare to that a man feels for a woman.

The longer Cornelius's words hang in the air, the more John bristles at the callous assumption that he is in any way Cornelius’s lover. Surely, there is a difference between a sodomite and whatever it may be that John Irving is. The distinction lies not so much in the actions but in the mentality behind those actions, which is what distinguishes John from a man like Cornelius.

It is the vehemence of these thoughts that drives John to push away Cornelius’s hands, despite their welcome warmth.

“Do not confuse your tastes for mine,” he says, struggling to speak through gritted teeth. “And do not assume that my actions under — under extraordinary circumstances — are representative of my natural inclinations.”

For a moment, Cornelius’s face is devoid of any trace of emotion. And then something crumples, just momentarily, before his features reform themselves into their typical insolent mask. “Extraordinary circumstances, Lieutenant? As I recall, the only _extraordinary circumstances_ under which you found yourself were encountering me in the orlop. There, I remember, you — not I, sir, _you_ — made a certain proposition…”

It had not been like that. It had not been like that at all. John’s lips twitch with fury. In fact, the decision had only arisen after a long period of duress, in which John had felt oppressed on all sides by the burden of leadership, by the desolation of the Arctic landscape, by the crushing loneliness that left no room for logic or discipline. He had approached Cornelius only because he was well aware of his reputation (and had indeed stumbled upon concrete evidence on one startling occasion), and because he seemed inclined to be discrete. Under different circumstances, he might have found Peglar or Gibson sharing his berth; it was a matter not of tastes, but of practicality.

“A proposition.” The joints ache of his fingers ache when he releases his grip on the gunwale. He had not realized how tightly he had been grasping it. “One made out of necessity, not desire.”

“Tell yourself what you will, John.”

And with that, Cornelius leaves him to the mercy of the savage cold and the hungering winds and the jagged white landscape of ice and snow before him.

  


To even consider the possibility, to so much as probe the idea in the quiet isolation of a cold and narrow bunk, is foolishness. He holds in his mind’s eye the vision he has long held of his eventual future. A blue and open sea ahead him, the feel of salt wind on his cheek. Sitting on a wooden pew beside a faceless, nameless wife, hushing a small flock of children. The warmth of a hearth before him while the windows run with droplets of rain, a hound sleeping at his feet. The gleam of the medals weighing heavy from his uniform as he stands among his celebrated peers.

And, as he holds tight to these images, he allows the alternative future to creep in. Gone are the ghostly figures of wife and child; he thinks only of Cornelius. The pale and slender hands tracing his jaw. The warmth of his mouth, the brush of his stubbled cheek against John’s own. The salt taste of his skin.

_Damn you_ , thinks John with a severity that startles him. _Think of something different. Lust is a cardinal sin._

A glimmering golden coast, then. He stands barefoot on the hot sand, waves lapping at his ankles, Cornelius beside him as his companion and equal, freckled and red with sunburn. They sleep under the stars during the cool nights, and retreat to a small cottage to cook and eat. It is a simple affair, dismal in comparison to the country estate he has always envisioned. As for the passing of their days, they will fish and gather plants, perhaps, and tend to the house, making repairs, spending their days beneath the sun  until all memories of the Arctic cold have been exorcised from their minds.

There might be a Godly humility in living so, like Adam in the garden of Eden. 

He aches for this future, so much so that he forgets all visions of domestic bliss. As he tosses and turns, shivering beneath worn bedclothes, he desperately gropes for the memory of Isabelle Fairfax. And old sweetheart. He cannot quite envision her face, but he is sure that if he were to see it now, it would summon up the long forgotten warmth, like sunshine spilling through a canopy, of youthful courtship. Linked arms and love poems and… he does not recall whether her eyes were green or blue. Or perhaps brown. Surely he must have gazed into their depths on many occasions, but he cannot seem to recall a single one.

It is only that the vulture of time has descended upon his memory. Two years at sea is long enough to excuse any lapses in memory when it comes to his beloved... 

Cornelius’s eyes are, of course, the brightest of blue.

His last waking thought is this: John Irving is a thoroughly lonely man.

When at last sleep claims him, he dreams not of the clamor of a busy household, but of the peaceful rush of the sea, unending and unyielding.

 

 

Several days pass before John, aided by prayer and the monotonous work of inventorying the ship’s supplies of canned food, comes to a decision.

Cornelius Hickey is the sort of man who is inescapable when you wish to avoid him, and impossible to find when he is needed. John expects to find him somewhere in the bowels of the ship, engaged in the never-ending job of tending to the ship’s creaking and splintering hull. He is not there, nor is he on the upper decks, and there is no reason to assume that he might be in the rigging when he is not scheduled to be on watch. When at last John comes to the end of his patience, he resigns himself to the fact that Cornelius will at some point or another seek him out — whether he will come offering revenge or atonement is impossible to say — and that until that point, there is no use in wasting his time searching for someone who does not wish to be found. 

A few more wretched days pass before he and Cornelius cross paths, an incredible feat on such a small and crowded vessel, and one that seems specifically designed to torment John. The sad fact is that of all the men on the ship, the man whose companionship he seeks out the most is Cornelius. It is with him that he shares the most smiles, with him that he speaks as honestly as he does with anyone. As of late they had taken to lying like stacked spoons in John’s bunk when such a thing might not be noticed, doing nothing more than speaking and sharing precious warmth. He had once thought that any warm body might do, but his ache now is specific, not for companionship but for a particular brand of companionship that only said caulker’s mate could provide.

They pass, by chance, in a narrow corridor.

“Lieutenant,” says Cornelius with a cordial nod.

Before Cornelius can escape him, John grasps his wrist. “The orlop at six bells," he whispers.

He cocks his head, eyes wide in mock confusion. “For what purpose, sir? To fu—?”

John cuts him off, looking sharply over his shoulder out of fear that they have been overheard. “I only want to speak to you. About our future.”

Cornelius’s expression is imperceptible, but he does not protest further, only nods. And, come six bells, he is in the orlop, rubbing his hands together for warmth and looking characteristically sullen.

John paces silently across the groaning wood, searching for words that will not come. He had never envisioned himself in this position, a man of rank and status. There is something in the situation that makes him think of an estranged relative who ran off with a doxy. Shameful, ridiculous. And yet he can no longer imagine returning to a life burdened by the old expectations that he had once taken so much hope in. It is only while sitting, trapped, in the midst of this unyielding ice pack, that he has felt an inexplicable sense of freedom, one that he is loath to surrender. 

“I have been thinking about this for some time,” he says at last. Cornelius is a silent witness atop of pile of crates., chewing contemplatively on the end of matchstick. “And I have come to the conclusion that God might be more forgiving of unnatural love than unnatural lust. That perhaps he might come to accept our past indiscretions were they grounded in the pureness of fidelity and companionship. As for the Sandwich Islands, I have no wish to return home. And as I see it, God loves beauty, and what could be more beautiful than to live ‘as a city upon a hill’, far removed from the luxuries of civilization and the sinful temptations of man? Maui or Oahu might be our city, should we choose to devote our lives to labor and contemplation, and..." 

It is only then that John allows himself to stop and look at Cornelius, acutely aware of the pounding of his heart. When said aloud, the words that thundered in the privacy of his own mind seem weak, laughable. Maybe he is only being foolish. But Cornelius is smiling, in the tender way that John has come to determine is genuine. Like the cracking open of the shutters to allow a glimpse of sunlight.

Cornelius surprises him when he says, with a solemnity in his voice that John is at first unsure what to make of, “But where will you procure your watercolor paints?”

John blinks, confused. “I am sure I might take advantage of the natural pigments available on the island. And it is not as if we will not be cut off from the world altogether. There are ports among the islands frequented by English sailors…”

“I don’t suppose there will be ropes available to climb,” Cornelius continues, affecting a contemplative air with his head tilted and his chin resting on his hand, “but trees might suffice. I might even be convinced to sing— think of me as a heathen in need of your holy guidance. We must do what we can to ensure not to fall victim to our unholy urges.”

“Oh,” says John, face heating, suddenly aware of the implication in Cornelius’s words. “You misunderstand me.”

“Do I?”

“I had no intention of terminating our— our arrangement.”

Cornelius arches an eyebrow. “Is that so, Lieutenant?”

It is a simple thing — for simpler than speaking hasty words that Cornelius may twist and warp as he pleases — to cross the distance between them and kiss him like he is a drowning man and Cornelius is water, and that is precisely what John does.

As for God, He will find a way to understand.


End file.
